


Repast, Interrupted

by lastontheboat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Draco Malfoy Cooks, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Healer Harry Potter, M/M, discussion of children receiving urgent medical care offscreen, mentions of past and potential smut, sobbing in the shower
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:34:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27127952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lastontheboat/pseuds/lastontheboat
Summary: Draco is making chicken jalfrezi when the Patronus arrives.“Not sure when I’ll be home,” the stag says using Harry’s voice. “There was an Auror incident and we keep admitting more patients. Sorry. I’ll make it up to you.”
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 29
Kudos: 276
Collections: HP Suds Fest 2020





	Repast, Interrupted

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to [manixzen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/manixzen/) for helping bring some of these scenes to life!

Draco is making chicken jalfrezi when the Patronus arrives. 

“Not sure when I’ll be home,” the stag says using Harry’s voice. “There was an Auror incident and we keep admitting more patients. Sorry. I’ll make it up to you.” 

Draco reaches out, holding his hand just short of the stag’s ghostly face. It stretches out and nuzzles against his palm, and Draco feels a tingling sensation as the Patronus fades away. He watches the space it had occupied for a moment, waiting to see if something else will happen, but the kitchen is silent and still. Eventually he turns back to the island and its cutting board with partially-chopped chicken breasts, and he resumes his measured, careful cuts. 

He’d sharpened his knives earlier in the afternoon, so the blade slices through the meat with barely a hint of resistance. He makes short work of the remaining breasts, lays the knife down and washes the meat juices off of his hands with soap and water, then he pours himself a glass of red wine and sits on the kitchen stool that rests by the sink, considering the contents of the island. 

There are several chopped garlic cloves, some plum tomatoes, the spice mixture that he’s already prepared for when he’s ready to start frying, and an unpeeled onion; he prefers to leave that for last because of the painful way his eyes react to the fumes as he dices them. There’s a finely chopped red chili that’s a compromise between his own tastes and Harry’s, who grows more and more enamoured with heat with each passing year. The basmati rice is already in the rice cooker - since it turns itself off when it’s ready he always starts it immediately to avoid forgetting about it in the bustle of pulling a meal together. 

Tonight’s meal is another compromise. Every year Draco suggests they go someplace nice for their anniversary, and every year Harry says he would feel bad if he were called in to St. Mungo’s when they had a reservation. Particularly for the kinds of places that Draco has in mind, which are on the cutting-edge of the wix culinary experience and tend to require down-payments. 

This isn’t the first anniversary dinner that Harry’s had to miss—in four years of marriage they’ve only had one completely uninterrupted anniversary. _Technically_ Harry only missed two and a half hours of last year’s; he came home grumbling about how the on-call healer would have handled it fine. They had only called him in because it was the wife of a big donor who was giving birth and the St. Mungo’s administrators got cold feet. He and Harry had ended up ordering take-away from the Indian place at the bottom of the street, since it had been late enough that Draco didn’t really feel like starting to make dinner at that point. 

Looking over the ingredients arrayed in front of him once more, Draco sighs. Harry had insisted that Draco should follow through on his plans when the call from St. Mungo’s for another Healer had come through just after half three. 

“I’m sure they’re just overreacting again,” he had told Draco confidently. "It’s early enough that I should be back before you’re even done cooking, then we’ll have a quiet night in.” He had blown Draco a kiss right before he stepped into the floo, calling, “See you soon!” 

Draco always takes Harry’s estimates around his work with a grain of salt, but he had been buoyed by Harry’s insistence. He likes to make food for Harry, and he’d planned a nice meal for that night. Harry’s Patronus, several hours after he was first called in, does not bode well, though. Draco wanders over to the fridge and pokes halfheartedly through the leftovers; he’s no longer in the mood to follow through with his original plans when Harry won’t be around to enjoy the dish. There’s some pad thai from a while ago that should probably be eaten soon or else binned, so he decants it into a bowl before grabbing his wand off the kitchen island and casting a gradual heating charm over his new dinner. While he waits for it to warm, he collects the in-progress chicken jalfrezi ingredients into some containers and attempts to find the matching lids that will allow him to store them and make another go at dinner tomorrow. The drawer they keep the lids in is a disaster; it looks like Harry’s been rifling through it again in a hurry to bring some food with him to St. Mungo’s. 

A few minutes later there’s no sign that Draco was ever in the throes of dinner prep, and he’s eating his week-and-a-half-old pad thai at the kitchen island and listening to the wireless. It’s a repeat episode of a murder drama that he remembers hearing last month, but it’s better than silence. He casts a glance at the empty harvest table that he and Harry usually sit at to eat dinner, sized just right for the two of them. He had extracted it from one of the Manor’s more intimate dining rooms, and Harry had argued at first that he didn’t want any of the Manor’s furniture when they moved in together; he’d called it ‘tainted.’ 

That had been one of their first big spats, when Draco had stood his ground, when he’d refused to excise everything in his life that had ever been touched by his family or the events of the war. Harry had eventually come around, but it had been a tense, drawn-out affair, one that had eventually resolved into their first big compromises. Draco had agreed to incorporate more Muggle activities as a gesture of good faith. They’d taken part in cooking classes together, and Harry had been absolute pants at it. It wasn’t really a surprise; cooking turned out to be a lot like potions, and Draco found it all rather satisfying. When Harry’s Healer training finished two years ago and his schedule only intensified, it simply made sense for Draco to assume all the cooking duties between them. 

The rest of the evening passes quietly, as Draco rattles around their large flat looking for things to keep himself occupied. By the time it’s quarter to eleven, Draco is sitting in Harry’s armchair and reading a book. He always takes advantage of Harry’s absences to sit in his chair, or sleep in his side of the bed. There’s a look that Harry gives him when he realizes that the cushion indentations are slightly wrong, and Draco always pretends he has no idea what Harry is on about. Now Draco finds himself rereading the same page over and over, and his blinks are gradually growing slower. There’s been no further word from Harry, so he finally hauls himself off to bed. He rolls his head around on Harry’s pillow a bunch for good measure before switching off the lamp and drifting off to sleep. 

* * *

Draco awakes to the sound of the floo spitting somebody out into the living room. He looks around him blearily; the room is still quite dark and he is damp with sweat, and he feels a fleeting sense of loss as the knowledge of whatever he was dreaming about evaporates. He listens for the sound of footsteps making their way towards the staircase to the upper level, and yes—he recognizes the sound of Harry’s tread on the steps, making his way to the bathroom. Harry likes to have a shower when he returns from St. Mungo’s; despite the protective charms they use, and their Healer robes with repellant fabrics, he says it helps him relax at home to know he’s washed everything off himself, and it’s a chance to decompress after a shift. 

Draco hears the bathroom door close, and listens for the sound of the shower turning on. He casts a tempus charm, wincing as it informs him that it’s just gone 3 o’clock. Harry’s home a full 10 hours later; they must really have needed his help in the end. Tomorrow’s going to be bad, since Harry is still expected to start his regular shift in five hours. Draco pulls back one of the blankets on the bed since Harry always runs hot at night, then flips his pillow over and lays there as the pipes in the house make their familiar gurgling sound. It probably wouldn’t take much to go back to sleep at this point; he would just have to turn his brain back off and let his tiredness overtake him once more. On the other hand, it would be nice to wait for Harry's comforting presence beside him in bed. Harry's an efficient shower-taker, unlike Draco’s self-indulgent, luxurious affairs, so it shouldn’t be too long before Harry joins him. He stares at the ceiling, listening to the sound of running water and willing himself to stay awake for a few more minutes. 

* * *

Draco comes to alertness in the middle of a snore. He grimaces, rolls over and adjusts his pillow, and is surprised to find no trace of Harry in his usual spot in the bed. That's when his other senses kick in and he realizes that he can still hear the shower running. 

With a yawn, Draco pushes back the covers and pads down the hallway to the closed bathroom door. The shower is still the only sound he can hear, and Draco has visions of Harry asleep, or maybe even passed out under the falling water. He knocks on the door and calls “Harry?” quietly. There’s no response. 

Pushing open the door, Draco peeks inside. The bathroom light is on, and he can see Harry through the glass walls of the shower cubicle, standing with his head tilted back so the water from the showerhead hits his face before running down the rest of his body. He’s not moving at all, just… standing, and Draco feels the hairs on his neck rise on end. He moves closer, until he’s right outside the shower with Harry’s discarded healer robes pooled around his feet. 

“Harry?” he tries again, and this time Harry moves his head to look at him, and Draco almost takes a step backwards. Harry’s face is naked, raw, and even though it’s hard to tell through the streams of water running down it, Draco is pretty sure he’s crying. 

“I’m coming in there, alright?” Draco asks, and he waits until he sees Harry’s slow nod, his eyes closed once more as he swipes at them, before he starts removing his pyjamas. Sliding the cubicle door aside, he steps in behind Harry and under the stream of water. It’s practically scalding, much hotter than Draco prefers, and he quickly reaches out to twist the knob that will temper the heat a bit. 

“Sorry,” he hears Harry mumble. 

Draco’s first instinct is to reply with something a little bit cutting about Harry’s need to flagellate himself, but something about Harry’s demeanour seems more fragile than usual. “Must have been quite a night,” he says instead, wrapping his arms around Harry’s waist, and he feels Harry lean back into him in response. He’s tense, but when Draco gives him a bit of a squeeze out of habit he feels Harry shudder a bit before leaning more of his weight against Draco. 

Harry settles his head back against Draco’s shoulder, and they stand under the stream together. “There was…” he begins, haltingly, but Draco can barely hear him over the rushing water before he trails off again. “Sorry,” he finally says. “I didn’t want to…” 

They’re quiet for another moment, then Draco reaches out for Harry’s bar of soap and carefully asks, “Would you like me to-” Harry’s already nodding against his shoulder before he’s finished the question, so he lathers up his hands in preparation. They’ve showered together before, playfully, eventually ending up pressed up against one of the walls and rutting against each other. Draco has even tortuously, sensuously washed Harry in the shower before, never breaking eye contact and avoiding touching the other man’s cock the entire time. It turns out the brain can invent entirely new erogenous zones if the usual ones are starved of attention, and Harry had been practically incoherent by the end, begging to be taken. Draco had been all too happy to oblige him. 

It feels more intimate this time, strangely, as Draco gently soaps Harry’s back and down the lengths of his arms. “It’s all right,” Draco tells him, murmuring it like a charm. “You’re here with me now. I’ve got you.” Harry gives a little shudder as he says it, but he also reaches behind him to clutch Draco’s waist tightly and pull him closer. Overall, Draco feels like his attempt at a reassuring monologue is doing more good than harm, so he continues whispering comforting platitudes as he lathers up the remainder of Harry’s broad backside. 

Harry submits gratefully to Draco’s attentions, seemingly relieved to no longer be responsible even for something as meaningless as a quick scrub, let alone trying to explain what’s going on in his head. “Turn for me,” Draco says into his ear, and Harry lets out a breath and revolves, his eyes closed, granting Draco easier access to his front. 

“I could…” Harry begins, but Draco hushes him. 

“You already do so much,” he murmurs. “Let me take care of you.” Taking Harry’s shoulders in both hands, he leans down a little bit to press a kiss to his forehead. He feels the remaining tension in Harry leak away as he leans into Draco’s embrace, and they hold that pose for a moment before Draco pulls back to resume his efforts. He proceeds along the length of Harry’s body in a workmanlike fashion, briefly skimming over the nipples, delivering a dispassionate brush of soap along the length of his cock without pausing to gauge his reaction. He can’t stop his own body’s response - it’s basically pavlovian when he’s on his knees in front of Harry these days, but he ignores it and focuses on completing his own task instead. 

When all remnants of the day’s trials have been washed down the drain, Draco replaces the soap in the dish and wraps his arms around Harry once again, placing his face against Harry’s neck. “Come on,” he says into it, quietly. “Let's go to bed.” 

In what Draco takes to be an encouraging sign, Harry nods and reaches out to turn off the shower faucet. They both stand there dripping for a moment before Draco says, “So, did you happen to grab a fresh towel before getting in here? Because I put yours in the wash earlier.” 

Harry gives this little sigh, like Draco doing laundry is just slightly too much to take on top of everything else. “Honestly, the sacrifices that I make for you,” Draco says. Harry huffs a small, breathy laugh in response, and Draco feels his heart unclench a tiny bit. He walks, dripping, out of the bathroom to the linen closet across the hall and grabs one towel to tie around his waist, and another one he makes sure is extra fluffy for Harry’s benefit. Making his way back to Harry, he envelops his husband in the warmth of the towel, receiving a soft thanks in response, before he sets about drying himself off with his own. 

Watching Harry from the corner of his eye and trying not to be obtrusive about it, Draco is relieved to see Harry going through the motions of toweling himself dry. He appears less overwhelmed now, but he’s still being quieter than usual. After a shift Harry likes to vent, or at least relate the details of particularly complex cases that he dealt with. He says that it helps him decompress, even if Draco doesn’t actually understand half of what Harry tells him. Draco worries his lip a bit as he refastens his towel and decides not to ask about the shift again; if Harry’s ready to talk about it, he’ll usually bring it up on his own. 

“You go ahead and get into bed,” Draco says briskly when they’re both more or less dry. “I’ll deal with your robes.” 

“Mmm, bed sounds good,” Harry murmurs. Draco thinks the late night might be catching up with him by this point, the tiredness overwhelming whatever was going on earlier. Wrapping his towel around him like a protective cloak, Harry is about to leave the bathroom when he pauses in the doorway and looks back at Draco for a moment. “Sorry about the anniversary,” he says quietly. 

Draco shrugs. “I try not to get my hopes up,” he says. The way Harry’s face closes off, he thinks it might have been too honest. Harry abruptly turns and walks down the hallway before Draco can say anything to soften it, and he sighs and picks Harry’s robes off the floor. He can explain what he meant in the morning, when they’re both better rested. 

* * *

They’re lying in bed, silently, and Draco’s the big spoon pressed up against Harry’s back. There’s a sliver of moonlight coming in through the window which paints a line across Harry’s dark shoulder and Draco’s right arm, which is wrapped around Harry. Draco’s starting to doze off again, he can feel it; it’s almost gone four in the morning at this point and he’s only human. When Harry starts to shake a little bit, though, it startles Draco out of his stupor. Then Draco hears a sniffle, and a little hiccough, and he instinctively squeezes Harry tighter. 

“It’s ok,” he says sleepily “You can let it out.” 

“Sorry,” Harry whispers, sounding miserable. “I thought you were asleep.” 

“Well, I’m not,” Draco says. “So you may as well just get it off your chest.” 

Harry doesn’t reply, but he’s still wracked by soundless, whole body sobs. Draco lays next to him, pressing himself as close to Harry’s back as he can, trying to convey support through his presence. Eventually Harry’s body stops jerking as spasmodically and he rolls over to face Draco. Now the moonlight coming through the window draws a slash down Harry’s face, highlighting one of his eyes and his other shoulder this time. 

“It was a big Auror operation,” he says quietly. “Some kind of… bust? An underground potions lab. Lots of spell damage.” He takes a deep breath, shudders a bit, and Draco doesn’t say anything, just lets him keep talking. “They just kept bringing more wounded in… all the people hurt in the raid. We kept patching them up… tried to figure out what was spell damage and what was exploding potions. When that slowed down I helped with the regular patient triage. It was really backed up. Just… stacks of charts everywhere, all these patients waiting to be seen.” 

He pauses, closing his eyes. Draco hums encouragingly, not sure exactly if he’s supposed to be reacting right now or not. Harry takes a breath again, seeming to steel himself for something yet to come. Draco realizes that Harry’s starting to slip into what he thinks of as his debriefing voice - it's a little bit like lecturing, as Harry tries to relate the facts of the case dispassionately, like he says they’re taught in their Healer training. 

Opening his eyes again, Harry continues: “There was one family with an 8 year old girl. They said she’d been… unusually tired, for several days, and she kept throwing up. I took one look at her and got… there's a vibe, when someone’s sick. It’s just… wrong. You can sense it.” He takes another breath, a bit shuddery this time. “I made sure she was admitted. We were short on beds, so I had to argue with the Chief Healer about it. I ordered some diagnostics, but there were no real warning signs in the results when they came back. Dehydration, and she was still tired. Obviously. There were no tumours or masses that showed up.” 

Another breath. Draco’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop; so far this sounds like a relatively normal shift, if slightly more chaotic than usual. “There was a lot of pressure to free up beds,” Harry continues, monotone. “Something about it still felt weird, though. I pushed back and ordered some more tests. I went to see other patients again… then the girl started seizing.” 

“Oh,” Draco breathes. 

“I _hate_ watching seizures,” Harry says angrily, and it’s the first thing he’s said that doesn’t come out toneless or sad. “I hate when _kids_ go through them. She was Teddy’s age, and I kept thinking… Anyways, the new test results came back. There was swelling in her brain. Nobody was arguing we should send her home anymore. At least we could treat it.” Harry turns away from Draco, sort of flopping on his back as he lets out a sigh. “It just… hit me, how young she was. How it could have been so much worse if we sent her home. If I wasn’t there.” 

“But it sounds like you did all the right things,” Draco says, and he’s unable to prevent a yawn as he does so. “Sorry. It sounds like you noticed a problem and made sure she was treated appropriately. Why aren’t we throwing a party?” 

“I just…” Harry begins, before trailing off, sounding lost. “That only happened because I wasn't here with you. I could have left earlier. I didn’t actually _need_ to help out with the backlog.” He pauses for a moment, and it feels like he’s steeling himself again. “I would do it again. Everything. Everything I did tonight… it's really important to me. That’s not ever going to change.” 

“Ok,” Draco says, a bit uncertainly. “What are you saying, exactly?” 

“You're also really important to me,” Harry says, barrelling onwards. Draco suspects he was semi-rehearsing this conversation in the shower, and possibly catastrophizing about it in the process. “I feel like a fraud saying that, though. I can’t even be here for our anniversary! I can't promise that we can make plans together or that I’ll be around for them. I think… I think that it’s time to acknowledge that.” Harry turns his face back towards Draco, and in the moonlight he looks worried. 

Draco waits to see if there’s more. “Are you finished?” he finally asks, and Harry nods in response. “Harry, it’s been actual, literal years since I paid any attention to your estimates of when you’ll be home,” he says, propping his head up on his right arm. “You are wildly optimistic about how long it takes you to do things, so I make sure that our plans are flexible.” Harry snorts, shakily, but doesn’t interrupt. “None of this is news to me. I made my peace with our situation a while ago, and I. Am. Fine with it. I know how important it is that you continue saving every member of the wizarding world-” 

Harry headbutts him gently. “Berk,” he says, and it comes out fondly but he’s also sniffling a bit again. 

“No, seriously, your saviour complex is out of this world,” Draco continues drily. “You should definitely see somebody about it.” This earns him a chuckle from Harry, and he leans forward and touches their foreheads together again, reaching out to wipe away a tear that glistens in the moonlight. “Your work is important, and as long as you want to keep doing it I will support you in it.” 

Harry lets out a shaky sigh of relief, and their faces are close enough together that Draco feels some of his hair shift in response. “I love you so much,” Harry says, and he presses a kiss against Draco’s lips. Draco returns it, and it’s sweet and gentle, and then Harry shifts a bit and their bodies press against each other and suddenly it feels like it could turn into something else at any moment. 

“Listen,” Draco says, pulling back slightly. “I need to warn you that if we continue right now, there’s a very real risk that I’ll just fall asleep and you’ll end up desperately rubbing yourself off against my snoring body.” His traitorous mouth yawns again for good measure, and he falls back against his pillow. “See?” 

Harry snorts. “No, you’re right,” he says. “Look at us. So responsible.” He lays back on his pillow as well, and they’re both quiet for a moment. Then Harry shifts a few times, as if something about the position is bothering him. “What did you do to my pillow?” he finally asks suspiciously. 

“No idea what you mean,” Draco says through another yawn, but he’s smiling to himself as he drifts off to sleep. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [@lastontheboat](https://lastontheboat.tumblr.com) on tumblr, and I'd love to hear from you!


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